Violently beaten-up, purple bruises on silver metal,
Cold heart of steel dented like a pony's flank,
Brass tubes of blood pump, a mechanical pulse,
You can't hurt this one, you can't break this heart.
Gloss over the damage in silver-leaf,
A worthless object plated in the melted-down remains,
Of anything that used to mean something,
The talent I thought I possessed drowns in molten-metal.
You jeer, you say it's a freak's revenge on a world who loathed her,
You call these scars self-harm,
I call them blurring the divides between normality and suicide,
But my graceless demise is none of your feigned concern,
Don't insult me by pretending that you give a damn.
We both know that I'm dead to you.